Bio:

People grow up hard in the United States of America. Happens every day. Your Mom’s at work all the time, Dad’s not around, no siblings at all to keep you in line, and your first lesson on the first day of school is that the big kids get your lunch money or you get hurt. Some people rise above it, going on to do great things! Maybe become President someday! Live the American dream!

Well, fuck that. That’s what Costas Petrakis has to say to that. Fuck the health care system that let his honest mother die of cancer before she was 55. Fuck the democracy that lets all those mouth-breathing, Glenn Beck-worshiping, brain-dead, Middle-America fucknuts decide that he’s not a “real citizen” like “the rest of us”. Fuck the cops, hiding behind lies about law and order while they jack themselves off over smashing some college kid’s face in. Costas isn’t interested in “rising above” his difficulties. He’s interested taking a fucking torch to them.

Costas grew up in Greektown, Detroit, and life wasn’t kind. Public schools in Detroit are practically a breeding ground for gang violence and recruitment, but Costas found refuge in a different set of colors. He worked hard in school, and worked out hard in the gym, always thinking about those men and women he’d read about in the library. Marx. Bakunin. Goldman. Stallman. The problem wasn’t some weird combination of “social ills”. The problem was the society itself. Fueled by this determination, Costas graduated with high marks and attended the University of Washington on a chemistry scholarship. He got his hands dirty for the first time during the 1999 Battle in Seattle WTO protests, when he cracked a riot cop’s spine with a crowbar (another cop thanked him with a hollow-point to the shoulder). Costas dropped out after that, with three years of college under his belt, and took work on a freighter to head to Europe. He spent about a year and a half in the Freetown Christiania anarchist commune in downtown Copenhagen, where he learned more about how to make anarchism work practically. He returned to the United States with the skills he needed to survive.

Honestly, Las Vegas ended up being Costas’ home almost by accident. He was back in Seattle, looking for the people and movements he’d left behind, when a strange man in a black suit made him an even stranger offer. That’s when things got a whole lot weirder. See, it turns out that it really wasn’t just about class struggle and economics. Turns out that all those old stories and religions really weren’t just opiates for the masses. Turns out that there are such things as motherfucking blood-sucking vampires, and Costas is one himself now. But you know what else?

Turns out that some of them are anarchists, too.

Revolution is coming.

“Never trust any of ”/campaign/city-lights-at-night/wikis/vampires" class=“wiki-page-link”> them, I don’t care what anyone tells you. The lichvar are predators and we are just a meal to them. Like a fucking Big Mac. Steer clear."
—Ondrej Gmeur

“He is what he is, but he seems to be at least trying to do something with it, I can respect that. But if he hurts the wrong people down here, I don’t care how tough he thinks he is. What I hear, ”/campaign/city-lights-at-night/wikis/vampires" class=“wiki-page-link”> Vamps can’t even stand to be around fire, and I can burn him to a crisp before he gets within 10 feet of me."
— Mr. Red